


Slade Robin Week

by GordandV



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Gen, Platonic Relationships, SladeRobinWeek2020, What's even considered canon anymore?, sladerobinweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27192853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GordandV/pseuds/GordandV
Summary: For Slade Robin Week 2020.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> V participated in another week of prompts for Slade Robin Week 2020, because V loves the idea of Slade being this anti-hero/villain, totally horrible guy, but he's also a dad.
> 
> Cartoons, live action movies/TV shows, animated movies, comic books, etc., have been thrown into a pot and stirred together. *licks spoon* Needs more salt.

**Day 1:** ~~Daddy Kink~~ | Reluctant Soulmates | ~~Dom/Sub World~~

“You stole my position as the Demon’s Head.”

“You killed my grandfather.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“Only after you tried to kill my mother,” Damian counters. “You tried to kill Grayson.”

Slade pauses and then nods. “True, but I’ve done that multiple times, many of which happened before I even knew you.” He leans back in his wicker chair once he’s filled two teacups and set the teapot aside on a metal coaster shaped like a throwing star. “You took one eye from me and then almost took the other.”

Damian just smiles. “You took most of the feeling in my left pinky.” He flexes his hand and then picks up his teacup.

Slade does the same, and then they both lean forward to gently touch their porcelain cups together. Damian sips.

“I once thought you were my father,” Damian admits softly. He rolls his eyes. “I was mistaken.”

Slade rests his cup against his lower lip. “Would that have been so bad?”

“Considering one of yours sons is dead, the other is mute, and your daughter hates you, yes.”

Slade winces, but he tips his cup in Damian’s direction. “Touché.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Day 2:** ~~(After) the Bad Guys Win | Sex Worker AU~~ | Merfolk

Slade’s got himself a little house settled in the rocky cliffs of a protected bay. The beach consists of a thin strip of crescent-shaped sand which means no visitors, and the precarious terrain ensures no one will come across Slade’s home even by accident. He’s got some rickety steps that lead down to the shore and an old rocking chair on his deck. Slade heads down to the beach every morning for a walk, and today he follows a set of strange drag marks.

There’s a large red and black mer settled in the pool of water, tangled up in a stiff wire net. Slade’s seen mer before; the bay means warm water and safety for all types of animals. This one has presumably tried to cut through the netting using the surrounding razor-sharp marks to no avail. The mer cracks one blue-green eye when Slade approaches, but it must have been tangled for some time, because the mer doesn’t even twitch. There’s enough water for the mer to be fully submerged, and Slade can see little paths between the rocks that are presumably bringing fresh water in and moving the bloodied water out.

“I bet you’re exhausted,” Slade says with a little sigh. “How long have you been tangled?

The surrounding rocks are strewn with more blood and scales. The mer’s torn to pieces, but some of the wounds look like they’re already a day or two old while other spots are still bleeding freely. Red swirls in the pool.

“You come here to die or free yourself?” Slade asks as he pulls the switchblade from his back pocket that he always keeps on hand.

Slade’s not dumb enough to approach a wild animal that could easily drown him, but the mer’s clearly dying. All he needs to do is not get his legs broken if the thing swings its tail around in one last desperate effort, and he should be fine. He throws a rock at the mer and hits its flank; it doesn’t move, so Slade crawls over a rock and splashes into the pool.

“Easy, big boy,” Slade says as he approaches and the mer stirs. “Easy.” He’s got a few books about marine life, and the two ear frills denote the mer as male; females only have one set of frills on either side of their head. “If you let me get you off you without killing me, I’ll even bring you a snack.”

Slade isn’t known to be compassionate, but he’s not heartless. It takes more than a little sawing to cut the wire, and even longer to cut enough free to pull it off the mer. The mer thrashes a bit when Slade removes the net, but it seems to be out of pain rather than malice as the metal hits raw wounds. Slade retreats and watches the mer crawl around the pool before finally settling again. He’s a nice looking mer, blood red and pitch black, all muscle and clean lines. Slade’s never seen a mer colored like this before, and he’s not sure he ever will again; the mer’s breathing hard, mouth wide open beneath the water as his gills weakly flutter open and close. There’s more blood in the water, and Slade drags the net back to his house to recycle. He trades the wire for two big slabs of frozen salmon and heads back to the pool.

“Hey, big boy, food,” Slade calls as tosses one hunk of salmon. He’s got good aim, and the fish floats down to the sandy bottom, right in front of the mer’s face.

The mer opens his eyes and inches forward to grab a corner with his teeth. He eats slowly, and Slade throws the other piece. He’s done everything he can to give the mer a fighting chance; there’s no rescue centers nearby, and nothing short of a helicopter could move the creature.

“If you’re alive and here tomorrow, I’ll bring you something better,” Slade says.

He can’t even imagine how much the mer must eat to sustain itself, but Slade’s freezer definitely doesn’t have enough fish.

Slade’s more than surprised to find the mer still in the pool the next morning. And he’s alive; he’s got algae and seaweed covering most of his wounds and is dozing when Slade sits himself on top of a rock, well out of striking distance. He supposes the mer wants to recover in relative peace and safety, and even the protected bay would be too open. Slade dumps a whole ass seal carcass he had found on the beach with a big shark bite taken out of it into the pool; he had planned on going fishing, but this is so much easier. The mer tears into the meat with gusto, reopens some of his wounds in his eagerness to eat, and even throws a hunk at Slade’s head.

“I’m going to call you Jason,” Slade says.


	3. Chapter 3

**Day 3:** Arranged Marriage | ~~Bounty on Robin(s) | Slavery~~

“You won’t be able to keep him, sir.”

“I. Know.” The words physically hurt Bruce to speak, and he leans one elbow on his throne in order to put his face in his hand.

Dick’s curled up in Bruce’s lap, thumb just shy of his mouth. He’s cried himself into an exhausted sleep yet again, and Bruce wishes he could offer Dick something more than words and backrubs. Bruce’s head snaps up when one of the doors to the throne room opens.

“I commanded no one enter!” the King of Gotham hisses, mindful of his young ward who remains blessedly asleep.

“Then perhaps you need better guards,” Viscount Slade Wilson offers as he approaches the dais with raised, open hands. “Your Majesty, apologies for intruding, but I have a solution to your… problem.” He glances at Dick.

“Problem, what problem?” Bruce snaps.

Slade just tilts his head; he’s only got one good eye left, but it darts again to the boy. “We both know the court will never allow you to adopt an orphan with no title. There are laws centuries old that prevent such a thing, and no monarch has ever succeeded in changing them, no matter how hard they fought.”

Bruce leans back in his chair, crown heavy on his head as he drops one hand to gently stroke Dick’s hair. He’ll need a bath later, a proper bed, and something to eat. “I’m listening.”

Slade just smiles. “Give him to me. Promise me his hand in marriage.”

Bruce abandons Dick and grabs onto the arms of his throne hard enough to have the wood creak. Dick doesn’t even stir. “He is eight years old! Eight! How _dare_ you-”

“Apologies, Your Majesty, I didn’t meant to offend.” Slade straights up from his deep bow. “It would be for your benefit, sire. And the boy’s.”

“Explain yourself.”

“The law forbids you from taking in any ward without a title, of which Mister Grayson has none.” Slade tips his head towards the child who continues to slumber. “However, were he and I to be betrothed, he would, technically, have the title of viscount-to-be. You could keep him.”

“And you presume that I would allow this, why?”

“Because you clearly love him,” Slade explains simply. “You clearly want to keep him. And I would have nothing to do with him until he comes of age. At which point…”

Brue narrows his eyes.

“We break off the betrothal. Dick will be declared next in line for the throne, and he will be free to marry whoever he wishes, if he chooses to do so.”

Bruce sits back in his chair; he’s intimately acquainted with the antiquated laws, but Slade words do seem to hold up. “And you would do this out of the goodness of your heart?” he asks. “An arranged marriage to the king’s son would bring you great honor and favor. Until the betrothal is called off. Then it’s a scandal.”

Slade just shrugs. “I’ve had my heart broken before.” He tilts his head. “And you’ve always been generous, sire. I can assume that generosity would continue after my would-be spouse refuses to wed, as a token for spending so many years waiting for something promised to me, only to have it taken away.”

“And should anyone find out this arranged marriage has been arranged to be broken?” Brue wonders.

“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Slade replies evenly. “Nothing illegal. Who am I to be blamed if your ward grows up into something I don’t find appealing? I will break off our betrothal, and yet we will still all come out of this with what we want. You, a son. Dick, a life with you, free to marry.”

“And you, a pension.” It’s money. Easy, easy money. And all Slade needs to do is offer his life and title to the boy still fast asleep on Bruce’s lap. “Alfred, see to it that the Viscount has papers drawn up to his liking. He will be promised Dick’s hand in marriage until he comes of age. And which point he will refuse the marriage.” Bruce’s eyes flash. “And should the Viscount not, I will take his head.”

“Very good, sir.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing to really warn for except normal bodily functions. If you made it past 6th grade, you should be fine.

**Day 4:** Same Dynamic Omegaverse | ~~Hands Free Orgasm | Identity Porn~~

Slade falls in line with the rest of the opera attendees as they leave their seats and slowly shuffle down the aisles during intermission. But as soon as they hit the doors, Slade detours for the much lesser used second floor restrooms; the main floor will be packed, and Slade has no desire to get stuck next to some chatty drunk at a urinal. The halls grow immediately quieter away from the lobby and bar, and Slade can’t help but smile a bit when he sees a young boy disappear around a corner in the direction that he’s going; at least someone else seems to have the same idea as him.

Slade opens the restroom door and almost stops; he had pretty good senses before his enhancement, but now they’re superhuman. He smells the faintest hint distressed pup and can hear whimpering coming from the lone occupied stall. Slade takes his time using the restroom and spends more time than needed washing his hands. He knows it’s Timothy Drake crying in the stall, that the boy had come in before him obviously hoping for privacy. And Slade doesn’t know the boy, but he can’t help but feel a pang of concern; sure, he’s Deathstroke the Terminator, homicidal mercenary, but he’s also a dad who enjoys a good opera now and then.

Slade opens the door and then lets it shut to make Timothy think he’s left and that the boy’s alone. Timothy lets out a loud breath and then Slade can hear him talking to himself.

“Please, no. Please, please, please, no. Anything but this. Please, no.”

The stall opens, and Timothy steps out with a wad of toilet paper in one hand. He freezes and gasps when he lays eyes on Slade who stands a lax, nonthreatening pose.

“You alright, kid?”

Timothy’s face is wet, and his lower lips continues to tremble. “I’m f-fine.”

Slade smiles. “Kid, you can’t lie to me, I’m a dad.” He takes a knee to make himself less intimidating. "What happened?”

Tim starts to cry in earnest and shakes his head.

“Hey, hey, calm down.” Slade gets up and makes his way over to Timothy. There’s a big padded bench lined up against the wall he intends on having them both sit on, but Tim jerks back and goes red in the face when Slade tries to get him to sit. He shifts back and forth uncomfortably on his feet.

“I-I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I-I…” Timothy stops to gather spit and swallow. He ducks his head and his shoulders go up to his ears. He stares at the floor. “I think… I think I got my period.”

Slade can’t help but blink. “Oh,” he says softly in surprise.

“I’m an omega,” Timothy croaks, and then he starts crying all over again.

And suddenly Slade knows what’s wrong. “You didn’t want to be an omega?”

Timothy shakes his head. “I’m supposed to be an alpha.” He rubs at his eyes and shakes his head. “I was supposed to be an alpha.”

Slade kneels down and gathers Timothy in his arms and lets him cry it out.

“My pants are all dirty,” Tim admits once he’s out of tears. “My parents are going to be mad.”

Janet and Jack Drake are certainly going to be unhappy about their son presenting as an omega given their outdated, sexist beliefs.

“Your parents are assholes,” Slade says simply as he grabs a handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabs at Tim’s eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with being an omega. And everyone ruins their pants every now and then, even alphas.”

Tim squirms again. Slade spares a look around at the bathroom, hoping for some type of dispenser offering shitty pads for a quarter, but there’s nothing. Of course; it’s an opera house, can’t ruin the décor with necessities for bodily functions. Slade goes back to digging inside his jacket with one hand.

“Let’s get you cleaned up. And if your parents say one word against being an omega, I’ll beat them over the head with a box of tampons myself.”

Timothy giggles a bit. “Do you have an omega?” he asks innocently, obviously sure of the fact that Slade likes omegas.

“I _am_ an omega, kid.” Timothy inhales sharply just as Slade finally finds his emergency pad, nothing more than a liner for undergarments. “And all my kids are omegas as well. And my wife.” Slade knows most people look at him and think he’s an omega; he fits the stereotype, but he’s got baby making birthing parts in addition to the baby making parts. “Let’s see how bad your pants are.”

Timothy’s underwear is a lost cause, but he hasn’t bled through his pants. Slade stands outside the stall while Timothy affixes the liner to his pants, and he exits with a blush. Slade grabs his underwear and throws it away; he’s lost many a pair to an unexpected period himself.

“You gotta tell your parents, kid. You need supplies for your next period. Birth control if you want it.”

Timothy sniffles and grabs onto Slade’s hand and shakes his head. “I-I can’t.”

Slade thinks Timothy might be thirteen; young, but not unreasonably so to present. His scent will start to change over the coming weeks with his influx of new hormones.

“You can’t. I can.”

And Slade marches them both back to the lobby where he finds Janet and Jack Drake.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter at end due to spoilers.

**Day 5:** ~~“What do you want from me?” | Dragons~~ | Pregnancy

Slade sits and stares at his phone for what feels like hours. It’s not like he has any other choice; the clinic was very clear that he had to be sedated and was required to have someone take him home. He could call a taxi, or an Uber. The twenty-four hour supervision after his procedure was highly recommended but not required since Slade had signed off on a form that promised he’d call 911 if he couldn’t get through to the clinic’s emergency number. But there’s no way in hell he’s letting some stranger drive him home, his paranoia won’t allow for that, and it’s not like he has friends who could give him a ride. (Wintergreen would, Slade thinks to himself, Billy would do it without question.) But Slade can’t bring himself to admit to anyone what he’s doing, even though there’s no shame in it. There’s nothing wrong with it.

Slade finally enters the ten digit number had had memorized months ago on a mission and his thumb hovers over the dial button. He doesn’t have a choice. Adeline’s on the other side of the country. She might not even take Slade’s call. (Not that he could blame her, he lied to her for years. So many years. So many lies.) And Slade can’t admit what he’s doing, not even to Wintergreen. He finally pushes down on the little dial icon and waits. He pretends his heartrate doesn’t pick up. That his already upset stomach doesn’t knot itself more.

“Hello?” Dick Grayson sounds just slightly out of breath. Like he’s come back from a run or Slade’s caught him in the gym. “Hello?” Dick repeats, and Slade takes a breath.

“Grayson.”

The other line goes silent for a moment. “How did you get this number?” Dick’s voice is cold.

“I…”

“I should hang up on you right now,” Dick hisses, and that’s the exact moment Slade’s nerves and morning sickness hit him.

He just plants his feet on the lowest rung of his barstool and so that he can get enough leverage to lean over the sink situated at the kitchen island he’s sitting at and vomit. It’s mostly bile mixed with orange juice, so it burns a little bit coming back up. Slade turns the sink on, takes a grateful sip to rinse his mouth out, and immediately pukes that back up as well.

“Slade, what’s wrong? Slade?” Dick sounds panicked.

Slade turns the sink off with a groan. He resists the urge to just lay his head on the counter and try to sleep the morning sickness off. “I need a ride.”

Dick doesn’t say anything when he drops Slade off at the clinic; he just puts a hand on the man’s shoulder, gives a little squeeze, and then offers a little wave when Slade stops by the two automatic doors and glances over his shoulder. Dick parallel parks two blocks away, feeds the meter for two hours’ worth of time, and then pulls out his tablet. His phone goes off forty-five minutes later.

Slade’s walking under his own power, but there’s someone in pink scrubs walking half a step behind him. Dick opens the passenger side door and offers his arm; Slade takes it, sits, and then leans the seat back as far as it’ll go. He rests his forearm over his eyes with the barest of groans while Dick takes a plastic bag filled papers from the clinic worker.

“Everything went well,” the employee says with a hint of a smile. “He’ll be a little groggy for a few more hours. All his aftercare instructions are in the bag if he has any questions. The clinic’s emergency number is there as well.” The employee peers around Dick. “He needs to take it easy for at least a day or two. Any heavy bleeding, go straight to the ER.”

Dick nods. He can’t force himself to smile, but he tries to sound pleasant. “Thank you.”

He puts the bag between Slade’s feet. Slade grumbles his displeasure when Dick reaches over him to get his seatbelt on but otherwise doesn’t put up a fight. The drive back to Slade’s apartment is silent. Dick doesn’t know if he should say anything, or even try to, but he does leave his hand on Slade’s knee when he can. Slade doesn’t shrug him off.

“I know you’re alright,” Dick offers awkwardly once Slade’s curled up in his bed that’s lined with old towels and a heating pad, “But I’m not comfortable leaving you alone today. Is it alright if I stay?”

Slade grunts. Getting him into his pajamas had been surprisingly easy: Dick had read over the packet of aftercare instructions while Slade changed.

“Do you need anything else?” Dick asks while he turns out the lights.

“Quiet,” Slade snaps.

“Alright.” Dick heads for the door. “I’m going to go sit on the couch. You have your phone. Call me if you need anything.”

Slade just grunts again.

Dick gets maybe two hours of TV before Slade sends him a blank text message. Dick’s already taken his shoes off, so he knocks gently on Slade’s door before heading in. He makes sure to shut the door behind himself and approaches the bed with caution.

“Hey, you texted me?”

Slade doesn’t move, but Dick can see Slade’s phone in his hand. Doing something or doing nothing could both prove disastrous, so Dick settles for sitting at the foot of the bed and gently rubbing one of Slade’s calves beneath the blanket. Dick’s careful to not actually look at the man.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to,” Dick murmurs. “No matter how long that takes, I’ll stay. You won’t be alone.”

It’s not like Slade deserves any comfort. Or kindness. He’s done horrible, horrible things and will probably do more in the future. But Dick tries to imagine being Slade’s age and getting pregnant with a baby he should have had no way of conceiving. Of doing the responsible thing and getting an abortion, but being totally alone. And Dick can’t do it.

“Try and get some rest, Slade. I’ll make you something you eat later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter revolves around an abortion.


	6. Chapter 6

**Day 6:** ~~Trapped Together~~ | Family Intervention | ~~Earth-3/Evil Bats~~

Deathstroke approaches Batman’s newest Robin at a languid walk. (What was he on, Number 3? God, Slade wouldn’t be surprised if Batman had an actual nest of orphans ready to take up the mantle as needed.) He knows nothing about the boy except that he’s removed all the green in the uniform, shortened the sleeves, and he’s maybe eleven years old. He stopped struggling against his bonds fifteen minutes ago, but he’s still sniffling softly from where’s tied up to a metal support beam. Someone’s taken his gloves off, and his wrists are rubbed raw. He picks his head up when Slade gets closer and rubs his runny nose against his shoulder. Slade doesn’t miss him tensing up.

“Who’re you?” Robin demands.

“I’m… a friend.”

Robin stops sniffling immediately, and Deathstroke almost gets whiplash from the sudden change. The lenses in Robin’s mask narrow. His shoulders slump. “No, you’re not.” He says it so matter of fact that Deathstroke actually feels his jaw drop open behind his own helmet. “You’re Deathstroke.”

Alright, so maybe Slade’s black and orange uniform is a bit recognizable, but so is Robin’s.

“You’re Slade Wilson,” Robin continues.

That’s not exactly a secret.

“You were out doing a contact for the Falcones,” Robin adds. “But you saw the broken skylight and decided to investigate, and-”

Slade grabs Robin by the mouth with one hand and pinches his cheeks until he’s got a fish face. “How do you know about the Falcone contract?” he hisses. That’s definitely not public knowledge.

“‘at’an!” Robin sounds entirely too delighted.

Deathstroke turns his head to see Batman lurking in a shadow, and he releases Robin’s mouth before he gets a Batarang in the back of hand.

“Nightwing!” Robin taps his feet against the floor in joy and cranes his neck to look up at a rafter where the vigilante is crouched; Nightwing offers a little wave.

“Red Hood, hi!”

The crime lord stuffs one of his guns back into a holster with a loud sigh as he trudges into the room. “What the hell is this, a family reunion?” he demands. “What’s Deathstroke? Weird Uncle?”

Robin gets up and brushes himself off. Deathstroke has no idea when he got the bindings off. “Or Strange Cousin,” he offers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!!

**Day 7:** Soulmarks ~~| Meeting the Parents/Family | Captive/Stolen Bride~~

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Bruce doesn’t let up on his litany of comforting words while he cradles Dick against his chest. Dick’s entirely too big to held like this, but he’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and is sobbing like a toddler who’s just taken an unexpected tumble and skinned his knee; he’s more shocked and confused than hurt, but Bruce is just thankful he’ll be alright given some time. “Everything’s going to be fine, Dick. Just… just let it out.”

Bruce rubs Dick’s back and reaches his free hand over to the half-empty box of tissues beside them on the bed when Dick starts to sniffle. There’s an already growing pile on the bedspread. It doesn’t matter that Dick’s almost thirty and has a life and career all his own, that’s he’s faced down some of the most dangerous people on earth and lived to tell about it: Bruce coaxes Dick away from his shoulder and fits the tissue against his nose.

“Blow.”

Dick does. His eyes are red and puffy, bloodshot as hell, and he’s still trembling from head-to-toe. Bruce puts the used tissue aside, wraps Dick more firmly up in the old blanket, and then drags them both to the headboard to give Bruce’s aching lower back a bit of relief. Dick curls up into a ball, rests his head on Bruce’s lap, and continues to sob. Bruce just brushes Dick’s hair away from his face and rubs his arm.

“It doesn’t mean anything, Dick, it really doesn’t. Plenty of people who hate each other have the same soulmark. Slade’s probably just as shocked about it as you are.”

Dick’s hand flies to his side and small black imprint of a fern there. He stops crying and starts breathing fast. Too fast.

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Bruce snaps as he grabs onto Dick’s biceps and forces him to sit upright. “You’re not having a panic attack over a silly little mark.” He gives a little shake, desperate to make Dick understand. “Soulmarks are not indicative of destiny, or romance, or anything like that.”

Dick’s not looking at Bruce. His eyes are darting around the darkened bedroom, breaths coming too fast and too short while his fingers start to dig into the blanket covering his side. Bruce wraps both arms around Dick and pulls his close. “Dick, breathe with me. Just breathe. In and out.”

It takes more than a few minutes for Dick to calm down, and by the time he’s breathing regularly again, the room’s almost pitch black. Bruce can hear Dick sniffling ever so gently which suggests he’s finally worn himself out. But his face is wet, so Dick still has tears to spare. Bruce dabs at his eyes with a tissue.

“It’s not the end of the world, Dick. Soulmarks don’t mean anything. You’re not going to fall in love with Slade. Not unless you want to.” Dick goes tense and absolutely snarls at the suggestion. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” Dick growls.

Bruce wisely moves his hand away from Dick’s face before Dick can think about biting him. He turns on a lamp. “Whatever you think soulmarks are, whatever you think they mean, they’re nothing more than a little reminder that someone else in the world shares something with you. Maybe you and Slade share a value. Maybe you two share the same characteristic.” Bruce smiles faintly. “Maybe you both just share a love of plants.”

Dick pulls away from Bruce with a sharp cry. He gets up and stumbles away from the bed, dragging his blanket with him. He’s not blubbering anymore, but Bruce can see tears streaming freely down Dick’s face. “This isn’t funny, Bruce! I share a soulmark with one of the world’s deadliest mercenaries! He kidnapped me! Held me captive for months! Blackmailed me! Tried to kill me on multiple occasions!”

“Dick-”

“No!” Dick turns around, drops the blanket, and wraps his arms about himself. “No, no, no!”

Bruce gets up immediately and heads for Dick; he catches him under the elbows just as Dick’s knees give out. He eases them both to the floor, grabs the fallen blanket, wraps it around Dick, and pulls his close.

“I know, I know.” Bruce settles his chin on top of Dick’s head. “I know…” Dick’s sobbing again, but it’s gentler this time, quieter, softer. “It’ll be better in the morning.”

“How is this going to be better in the morning?” Dick croaks. “How?”

“It won’t be as raw,” Bruce whispers. “You won’t be in shock.”

“I’ll still have Slade’s soulmark.”

“Maybe he has yours.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V told Gord she was going to do a literal Slade x Robin ficlet for Free Day (a Robin bird), and Gord nodded and went, "ah, yes, Robin John Blake. An actual Robin. Got it." And then V used a swear word and decided she had to do that instead.
> 
> For anyone who needs a refresher, in the Dark Knight movies we meet Officer John Blake who, at the end of the story, tells us his first name is actually Robin, and Bruce gives him the Batcave. More or less. And I think he quits GCPD, but hey, fanfiction.

**Day 8:** Free day! Slade & Robin

Gotham’s more or less back together. And John’s been promised a promotion and then some as soon as the police department pulls itself back together and his paperwork goes through, but until then, he’s got traffic duty. Today’s schedule consists of helping direct cars while the city finishes patching itself up beyond band aid fixes. Most of the traffic lights are back up and running, but there’s still a big ass pothole off 6th Street that needs to be fixed. So John dons a reflective vest, white gloves for maximum visibility, and tries to help Jersey drivers navigate a slightly altered right turn.

“Excuse me, Officer.”

John’s on lunch. He’s got ham and cheese on white bread with Dijon. And lettuce and tomato and some mystery spices because Alfred had been in a particularly good mood since coming back from his trip and has started cutting the crusts off John’s sandwiches and helping him go through drives in the Cave. He’s been in a much better mood since Bruce died, and John hopes it stays. But John just stares stupidly at the tourist who’s got a big map of Gotham unfolded in front of him.

“I’m sorry to bother you on your lunch, but I know this hasn’t been updated in years, and I’m already running late for a meeting. Can you help me find the hotel that used to be on 9th?”

Slade Wilson. Deathstroke. There’s an entire drive dedicated to the mercenary. And a little note written in Bruce’s slanted scrawl that simply reads “has an unusual fascination w/Dick.” Whatever that means. The capitalization had been intentional, John’s sure.

“I’ve been to Gotham so many times, but this is the first time I’ve needed to ask for help.”

One of John’s tomatoes slides out his sandwich due to his lax grip and falls onto the waxy paper Alfred had used to wrap his food. Deathstroke the Terminator is not asking John for directions. He can’t be. Except that he is. Is John morally obligated to shoot the man on sight? Bruce never left instructions about what to _do_ with the mercenary except try to steer clear unless absolutely necessary: he was a formidable opponent. Enhanced. A pain in the ass. Apparently lost. And he’s not doing anything wrong at the moment, so it’s not like John can arrest him. Try to arrest him.

“It’s, uh, the hotel got moved to seventh.” John blinks hard. “They relocated twice. I’m guessing they didn’t update their signs again.”

“Oh,” Slade says. “Thanks.”

And then he’s off. John doesn’t know if he should follow, because his gut tells him that Slade’s probably in Gotham for some type of hit. But it’s not like John can just leave… he’ll have to suit up once the sun goes down and keep an eye out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and left a kudo! 
> 
> Happy First Day of November! 2020 is almost over. We're almost there.


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